The Library
by DokuMidori
Summary: My collection of ideas. Some good, some not so much. Some characters may be original. Most belong to J.K. Rowling.
1. Black Scales

It had taken all of his time alone at Hogwarts to get as far as he had, not that he would ever leave anyone alive to know this. After all, a true serpent doesn't reveal all of his secrets.

It had taken every ounce of brainpower he possessed to work out the issues his course took, the pathways of magic being so wily and arcane. But a raven is clever and not so easily deterred.

It was a difficult path, fraught with hard work, work that a lesser man would have balked at, for even magic was not so potent to do this for him. To him though, work was as integral as it was to a badger.

It was often terrifying as he struck out, alone, into unknown magics, not entirely certain he would survive. He forged on, for a lion is nothing if not courageous.

* * *

Tonight it all came together. The soul fragment in his head had accidentally been sacrificed early in his endeavors, not that he had realized what he had done at the time. The Diary was destroyed by a venomous fang, the Ring cloven by goblin steel, the Locket met the same fate, the Goblet was likewise sundered by the basilisk's venom, and the diadem was the first casualty of his new skill, though it would later be told as uncontrolled fiend-fyre. All that remained of the monster he was slated to kill was a measly snake and a poorly constructed homonculus.

After he had made his way just far enough into the forest, he shifted into the form that would let him end this conflict once and for all.

Scales of onyx black began to replace skin as his stature grew immensely. From his back erupted two new appendages that each grew quickly to match the needs of flight. Joints adjusted and re-purposed themselves as bone modified its composition to a lighter and stronger material. Finally, a spark began to grow into an inferno within him, one that demanded release upon those whom would dare to oppose him.

Harry Potter launched himself into the night sky, quickly gaining height to avoid being spotted in the light from the few fires that hadn't yet burnt out from the altercation earlier in the evening. Once at altitude, he banked, spiraled around to scan the area for suspicious activities, before identifying an island of mammalian heat amidst a swirling sea of dementors.

Drawing a great breath, he dove from his lofty vantage and swooped low over the forest, the air he had gathered beginning to feed the flames now singing within him.

* * *

The release of flame a moment later was an explosion of light, heat, and noise, and was over in the next moment. The clearing was vaporized in an instant of white light and thermal energy that shred everything solid into its component parts, only for it to burn into new gasses and glass as the flames began to radiate out from the point of impact.

A homonculus steeped in dark energy was one of the first things to be demolished, followed quickly by a serpent of unnatural length, the soul fragments contained within were demolished by the heat alone, to say nothing of the magic the fire was born of. A wand whose power stemmed from long lost magiks of the soul, once thought to have been unbeatable and unbreakable, erupted into eldritch flames, feeding the inferno to new heights. Numerous magicals whom wielded a great deal of power in the world they lived in, were also a victim of this pyre that blazed into the sky, forever changing the political landscape of their world by their absence.

The burning wind spread, consuming everything in its path, until the initial flames spent their energy and the remaining fire was left to immolate the trees it had overtaken. For days thereafter, the fires would spread across much of the forest, leaving untouched only the lands warded by the centaurs, the pure lands of the unicorns, and a few other mysterious exceptions whose magics were too powerful to overcome.

* * *

Above the havoc and mayhem, a dragon glided silently on the thermals the raging flames produced beneath him. With eyes of emerald, Harry examined his work and found it to be adequate... for now.

He would get better, but that would be for the future, for now he was content. Now he would take a well earned rest.

Turning his way south, he left a message burning in the sky for all to see, written in flames as verdant as his eyes.

"Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus"


	2. The Death of Harry Potter

Preface.

I have a problem with a fair bit of HP fan fiction, particularly the sub-genre where Harry is sent back in time mentally because he has failed and solely because he has failed. My problem is this. Nowhere in the prophesy regarding the dark lord and the marked chosen does it state that the marked chosen will be the one to kill the dark lord, only that the marked chosen has the potential to defeat the dark lord, that the dark lord will not know of this capability that could tip the scales, that the dark lord will acknowledge the marked chosen's capability to kill the dark lord, thus marking the chosen, that one must kill the other by their explicit action, and that the chosen and the dark lord will be unable to live whilst the other survives, implying that some level of the hierarchy of needs for both individuals will not be met so long as the other survives. As such, it is erroneous to state that by virtue of the prophesy, Harry is fated to kill Voldemort, or any permutation of such a statement. As such, it is further erroneous to create a situation based upon such logic that results in Harry being returned to the past with knowledge of a potential future, much less even being returned to life in the first place. With that, I now present what is, in my humble opinion, a more logical opening to a tale of Harry being returned to life after dying by the hand of the dark lord…

* * *

On the Death of Harry Potter.

It hadn't hurt, not really. Dying that is. The green light overtook Harry and that was all she wrote, sort of. Now he found himself in a special kind of Hell. Bureaucracy. He was shuttled from waiting room to office to secretary and onwards in a seeming infinite series of incomprehensible dance of paper work and signatures. To make matters worse, the language the feathery-winged paper pushers seemed to speak was not one he was familiar with the vocabulary, or syntax, or even how they even pronounced any of the words, but still understood. It was giving him a headache. Now, finally, after an interminable series of hurrying from place to place with a growing stack of forms that weren't actually paper, or really any known writing surface, each inscribed with characters that were as hard to look directly at as a lit incandescent filament, he was sat down before someone whom didn't wear white or pastel blues.

MR. POTTER.

It was not said. It simply was. The phrase existed because the being in grey behind the desk willed it, all capitals and all.

YOU DIED.

At this Harry found himself rather abashed, as though he were back in school, being caught out after curfew, not trying to get into the afterlife. Well, the afterlife after paperwork apparently.

NORMALLY, YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN WELL ON YOUR WAY ALREADY, BUT THERE WERE… COMPLICATIONS.

The way that word existed didn't just send shivers down his spine, it grasped ahold of each and every bone in his body and set them to vibrate for a single electric moment. Whatever these "complications" were, they weren't good.

YOU WERE/ARE A CHILD OF FATE/DESTINY/PROPHESY. YOUR FAILURE SHOULD HAVE MEANT THE FALL OF THE WORLD AS A WHOLE TO AN ENTITY OF DARKNESS. THE LOSSES WOULD HAVE BEEN CATASTROPHIC. THE REIGN OF TOM RIDDLE WOULD HAVE BEEN TERRIBLE BUT SHORT. IT WOULD HAVE ENDED IN CATASTROPHY, LIFE ON EARTH LOST ENTIRELY IN ONE MOMENT. BUT. SOMEONE INTERFERED AND FOR THIS, YOUR TESTIMONY WAS NECESSARY.

The grey suited fellow on the other side of the desk was faced in Harry's general direction, but it was hard to tell precisely where someone is looking when all you have to go on are two, omni-hued pinpricks of pearlescent light peeking forth from two voids too dark for black to be an adequate descriptor. Void came closer, but still was insufficient. Anyway, Harry now sought to focus back on the matter at hand.

"…So that was the paperwork right? I can go on?"

…

…

…

NO.

Well, fuck.

SOMETHING FROM BEYOND YOUR WORLD INTERFERED WHERE THEY SHOULDN'T HAVE. YOU DID NOT ACT AS YOU SHOULD HAVE. YOU WERE A CHILD OF FATE/DESTINY/PROPHESY. YOU WERE MEANT TO OPPOSE THE OTHER WITH YOUR WHOLE BEING; NOT LAY DOWN YOUR LIFE AT THE PRECISE MOMENT WHEN YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN OPENING THE FINAL BATTLE. HAD EVENTS GONE THIS WAY WITHOUT INTERFERENCE, YOUR AFTERLIFE WOULD HAVE BEEN SPENT WATCHING THE RESULTS OF YOUR FAILURE. HOWEVER, SINCE THINGS HAVE BEEN CHANGED, WE TOO CAN CHANGE THEM, BUT MORE DIRECTLY. YOU WILL BE GOING BACK. YOU WILL BE GRANTED KNOWLEDGE. YOU WILL USE IT TO DO WHAT YOU WERE MEANT TO DO, TO GAUGE THE TRUE STRENGTH OF GOOD AGAINST EVIL. YOU WILL DO YOUR UTMOST TO KILL YOUR ENEMY. IF YOU SUCEED, YOU WILL BE TASKED WITH FINDING THE SOURCE OF THE INTERFERENCE. IF YOU SUCEED ONCE AGAIN, ONLY THEN YOU WILL KNOW PEACE.

By now, Harry was livid. He had just given his life to make Voldemort mortal, then gotten the runaround by a bunch of angels, and now was being told that he had to do the work of heaven on earth for nothing more than a peaceful life. So he did what any good Gryffindor might, even in the face of what was probably The Angel of Death. He jumped to his feet, slammed his hands on the desk (which would have hurt a hell of a lot more if he actually had a proper body) and he shouted in the being's face, "No I bloody will not! I just got done with a war! You can't do this to me! I've earned my rest! Get someone else to do it!"

At this, whatever passed for air changed. The world around Harry seemed to begin to shrink, objects around the Spartan office fading into a growing darkness as the omnipresent light seemed to dim and flicker. Standing taller than anything else was the being in front of Harry. They were separated by distances vaster than any human had ever seen and yet for all that space, the being was nigh infinite orders of magnitude greater in size, the suit shifting into a ragged cloak, its wings stretching from the beginning to the end and beyond.

YOU WILL.

I CAN.

YOU HAVENT.

THERE IS NO ONE ELSE.

YOUR DEATH IS THE BEGINNING OF THE END. BRITAIN FALLS AND YOUR FRIENDS AND ALLIES WITH IT. EUROPE FALLS. THE SUN IS BLOTTED FROM THE SKY BY PERMANENT CLOUDS OF SOOT FROM THE SCORTCHED BATTLEFIELDS. AFRICA AND ASIA FALL. THE SPRING DOES NOT COME AND SUMMER DOES NOT FOLLOW, ONLY WINTER REMAINS. THE AMERICAS AND AUSTRALIA FALL. THE OCEANS BEGIN TO FREEZE. A WIZARD IN ANTARCTICA CASTS A SPELL TO IGNITE ALL RADIO-ISOTOPES ON EARTH INTO A SINGLE, ENCOMPASING CONFLAGRATION.

EVERYTHING BURNS.

SO ENDS THIS TALE. YOUR WORLD IS DEAD.

Harry could see it, each event in succession; War, suffering, and death, his friends captured and broken, begging, pleading, and sobbing for death by the end, the burning of battlefields dormant since the 40's, the fires that turned the Sahara Desert into an unbroken plain of glass, the winter that froze even the Russians as Voldemort's armies marched ever onward, the dread plagues that swept through the southern Americas, the famines that choked the last life from Australia, the betrayal that sealed the fate of the northern Americas, the wizard hidden in the coldest place on earth, and the only safe haven left, the spell he crafted with bits of knowledge of nuclear science and the protean charm, and the blaze that burst forth from beneath the crust of the Earth to raze the surface into a blackened and barren wasteland. Everything burned. He wished he could cry, that he could turn away, that he could gouge his eyes out, but he didn't' seem to really have eyes, or a real body, here.

The office returned to its previous state as Harry pseudo-collapsed back into his chair.

THE ONES WHO TRULY DID THIS ARE OUT THERE STILL. THIS IS NOT THE FIRST WORLD THEY HAVE CLAIMED, NOR WOULD IT BE THE LAST, BUT THEY HAVE MADE A MISTAKE. THEY DID THEIR WORK TOO WELL WITHOUT MODERATION AND NOW WE CAN FIND THEM, BUT WE MUST WORK THROUGH YOU. THEY HAVE BROKEN THE RULES, SO NOW SO CAN WE, BUT ONLY SO MANY. YOU WILL NOT BE ALONE. WE WILL GUIDE YOU AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE, ARM YOU WHEN WE CAN, PROTECT YOU HOWEVER WE CAN.

…

YOU DO HAVE A CHOICE. YOU ALWAYS HAVE A CHOICE, SUCH IS THE NATURE OF LIFE, BUT THAT CHOICE IS AGONOUS OBLIVION AS YOU LET YOUR LIFE END AGAIN, OR YOU MAY FIGHT WITH US. CHOOSE WISELY HARRY JAMES POTTER, ALL DECISIONS WILL BE FINAL...


	3. Mother Dragon

Harry was terrified. Dragons, who in their right minds pitted teenagers against bloody dragons. The only dragon Harry had ever had to deal with was Norbert, and even then, the young drake was more than he would want to deal with, much less the monster he had withdrawn from the sack. The other three champions had already left, and now it was Harry's turn. Hands shaking, he strode from the tent and into the arena.

It was obvious where the dragon lay, since even crouching over her nest, she towered above the rocky terrain that lay between Harry and potential victory.

Looking into the amber eyes across the arena, a calm descended upon Harry. It was the calm of someone whom has looked death in the face time and again, and each time death blinked first. It was a calm that began whilst dealing with his cousin's "Harry Hunting". It grew with the introduction of quidditch into Harry's life, and was honed by his brushes with Tom in first and second year. It was tested the year before, as he sought to retain it in the face of the magical terror a hundred dementors.

As Harry strode across the open terrain, carefully measuring each possible route to his goal, the dragon watched carefully. The men and women whom had put her there had bound her with chains, as though they would stop her, should she desire to leave, regardless of the magic cast upon them. Now, this young human stepped into her temporary domain and dragons, particularly nesting mothers, are not known to suffer trespassers to live.

At about half way across the arena, Harry stopped. It should be close enough for some magic, but far enough away to take cover in case the dragon decided she preferred her morsels roasted rather than raw. First were a few transfigurations to gauge the dragon's reactions. The answer was predictable as it was useless. Kill it with fire. Next were the few illusions and cantrips Harry remembered from charms. No real effect, but for material just barely above fourth year in execution, well done. So it came down to direct engagement. Again. One last ditch attempt saw Harry summon his patronus. As feared, no discernable effect, but one could not blame Harry from trying.

Contrary to Harry's beliefs, the patronus did have an effect on the dragon, though not one that was obvious to the casual observer. As Harry did his best to psyche himself up for charging a dragon with nothing but a stunning spell, the dragon's curiosity stirred.

Each and every time the humans had come to interact with her before, they opened with a salvo of the lights that stung and itched, and proceeded to continue until she decided to humor them, or they would get a lucky shot in her eye and suddenly the world would go black. They also came in droves, ten, fifteen, twenty at a time. Now comes this singular human, whom had so far done little more than petty tricks until that last spell. It was different. It felt good and pure. It felt like the warmth of a cave on a cold winter's night, watching her yearlings amble about the cavern as they figured out what it meant to be a dragon, and the bonds she had for her mate back on the preserve.

Who was this, whom could create such a wondrous light from the tools of pain his species used?

As the human began to run from the rock he had been hiding behind, the dragoness reached out with the wild magic that burned within her and sought to touch the mind of this curious human. To those observing, it looked as though a tongue of flame briefly connected the two before vanishing. To the fragment of Tom Riddle's soul that had resided in Harry's head, the touch of the flame was an instant of pure agony followed by a swift death. To Harry himself, it was as though he had been dunked into a bath that was far too hot yet was not wet. In that moment, he saw much of his life as it led to this moment; back to the tent, back to the night of the goblet, back to the world cup, back to the end of third year, back to the beginning of third year, and on and on. The images came as an endless stream at first, each blurring into the next. As they reached further and further back, they came slower and slower. Finally, Harry listened and watched as his mother was cut down by the thing that once was Tom Riddle. Then a moment's pause occurred. Then something new, something old, something forgotten returned to Harry. It started as humming, then grew slowly into singing. Slowly, he remembered the last time his mother sung him to sleep. As quickly as it came, the heat receded. The moment ended, and Harry, drained as he was by the eternal moment the dragon's magic created, collapsed.

As he lay there, tears leaking from his eyes as Harry held onto the memory of his mother's song for dear life, the air was rent by a dragon's roar, followed by the sound of shattering chains and thunderous wing beats. Even as the ground shook from the landing of the dragon somewhere above him, Harry couldn't bring himself to care. He finally had absolute proof that his mother loved him. The effects of the Protection she supposedly gave him were tainted by what they were necessary for and what had created them in the first place. The stories of those who knew his parents were all suspect due to his own fame and the biases of those doing the telling. Even the memory that the dementors had uncovered was a horrific vision at best, and an utter nightmare at worst. This new memory was pure though and it was as real as he could have ever hoped.

At that moment, he was sure that he was about to die, but Harry didn't care. He had been loved, and would be loved when he moved on. Of this, he was certain.

The dragon had different plans.

What she had seen had incensed her. She didn't understand much of it, a command of the English language not being a skill she possessed, but she understood body language, and she understood actions. At no time in her seven-hundred years of life could she imagine humans could be so cruel to their own kind, much less one of their own kin. For a species whom can only have children once every few decades, the very thought was horrifying, to view children as anything less than a miracle and a blessing. To do so for such a special child as Harry, it beggared belief, but there it was, written upon the boy's mind and soul. There was no choice, only a decision on how. If those fools could not appreciate him, then she would have to do it in their stead.

So, even as a scream of primal rage for the injustices wrought upon her newest hatchling tore itself from her lungs, her magic reached out to break the chains holding her in place and return her eggs to her nest in Bulgaria. To move something as large as her hatchling though, that would need physical contact, so she launched herself across the gap to where he had fallen. A single talon was placed on the small of his back as she wrapped the two of them in her magic and then a moment later they were home.

To those in the stands, all that was seen was Harry's sudden collapse, followed by the dragon's rage. The dragon launched itself next to the fourth champion before bringing one of its wickedly sharp talons down upon him, then vanishing the both of them in an immense conflagration that seared past the wards set up to contain dragon fire, forcing the audience to close their collective eyes. Upon opening them, all that remained of where dragon and champion had been was pool of cooling glass.


End file.
